


i love you, ain’t that the worst thing you ever heard?

by angejolras



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Pining, a study in cynicism, anyway! enjoy!!, at least i think it is., but mostly bittersweet imo???, lmao it’s quite a bit angsty, the ending is pretty ambiguous.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2020-12-31 21:27:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21152459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angejolras/pseuds/angejolras
Summary: On the way home, driving through the pouring rain, he imagines her face when he opens the door to let her inside, uninhibited in the way she strides in and sits on his bed as if she owns the place, and she’ll let him touch her without restraint and she’ll lie with him through the night until he falls asleep, and she’ll be long gone by the time the sun rises the next morning. Her side of the bed will already be cold when he wakes up. This is how it goes.(Or in other words, she's got commitment issues and he makes the mistake of falling for her.)





	i love you, ain’t that the worst thing you ever heard?

**Author's Note:**

> heyo i'm back here's another fic
> 
> i really quite like how this turned out, actually!! do give it a chance. (éponine's so angsty in this lmao chill)
> 
> also, i seem to have subconsciously written a few references to taylor swift's discography in this fic (which i didn’t intend to do beyond the title), let's see if you can find all of them!!

you wanted happiness, i can’t blame you for that,  
and maybe a mouth sounds idiotic when it blathers on about joy  
but tell me you love this, tell me you’re not miserable.

_\- richard siken, Seaside Improvisation_

It starts the way these kinds of things usually do: with a drunken kiss on a grimy bathroom counter and these feelings going out of their way to fuck it all up.

He should’ve known they were cursed from the very start.

Courfeyrac’s dragged him and Combeferre out one night, dragged them to a seedy dive bar on the East Side, where a surprising amount of students have designated their regular hang-out spot, under the insistence that all the rest of their friends will be there as well. Finals week is drawing near, so Enjolras interprets it as an attempt at getting in as much foolhardy behaviour as they possibly can before they inevitably have to force themselves into buckling down and burying themselves in textbooks drowning in neon highlighter and colour-coded flashcards.

Almost the moment they walk in, Courfeyrac practically abandons them in favour of the dance floor, leaving Enjolras and Combeferre standing around looking rather like idiots, trying not to attract much attention. A difficult feat, considering how they’re both well above average in height. Courfeyrac complains about that little tidbit often, being an inch below average himself.

After a fair few minutes of just awkwardly standing there, Combeferre cocks his head in the direction of the bar. “Well, we might as well get ourselves a drink, right?”

Enjolras nods wordlessly and the pair make their way up to the bar. Musichetta greets them with a wry smile, leaning over the counter and raising her eyebrows at them. “So what’ll it be?” she questions genially. Well, as genial as one can be when working as a bartender in a dingy, disreputable dive bar, anyway.

“Just some whiskey on the rocks, thank you, Chetta,” Combeferre says, giving her a gracious smile.

Musichetta turns to Enjolras. “What about you, chief?”

“A gin and tonic, please.” Enjolras watches Musichetta go off to mix their drinks for them before he takes in the whole bar scene, eyes wandering. It’s rather interesting, to take it all in. Perhaps that’s why he has a tendency to sit in a corner and just quietly listen to his friends on their nights out.

Musichetta hands him and Combeferre their drinks at the same time Grantaire comes stumbling up to the bar, an unabashedly intoxicated grin on his face as he salutes them and calls out, “Some vodka shots, Chetta, please and thank you!” He turns his attention back to Enjolras and Combeferre, greeting, “So how’s it going?”

Enjolras just furrows his eyebrows and gives him something of a questioning smile as he raises his glass to his lips, taking a sip of the drink before he places it back on the bar counter. Combeferre leans in closer to Grantaire and frowns. “You smell like tequila.”

Grantaire just grins even more, a little loopy. “And what about it?”

Though Grantaire is well-known to frequent various bars and clubs around the city, he’s hardly ever seen out alone, which only means that Éponine must have come along with him, with how she and Grantaire are scarcely seen apart. Automatically, Enjolras’ eyes scan the room, and sure enough, his gaze soon lands on that familiar head of dark chestnut-brown hair and dark eyes. He sees her in a back corner, leaning back against the wall with her drink in hand, straw between her teeth, a lazy grin on her face as she flirts with a girl Enjolras thinks he recognises from one of his classes.

Enjolras has always been rather intrigued by Éponine, ever since she walked up to him and the rest of Les Amis in their freshman year of college and promptly introduced herself and Grantaire to them. From that day forth, they’ve been part of the group. And Enjolras has never been quite sure what to make of her. She’s got a dangerous glint in her eyes and a machete for a tongue. He likes her well enough, though, he knows that much.

“Who are you staring at?” Combeferre follows Enjolras’ gaze, prompting Musichetta and Grantaire to do the same, and the moment she sees Éponine, Musichetta snorts.

“Come on, Enj,” she drawls with a roll of her eyes. “Y’know nothing good ever comes out of falling for a girl like Éponine.”

Enjolras’ cheeks burn red. Somehow, miraculously, he manages to keep a level head, responding, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Musichetta smirks at him. “Sure you don’t.”

Grantaire knocks back one of the vodka shots Musichetta has set out for him and heaves out a sigh as he slams the shot-glass back down on the counter. “Better stop now before it gets worse, chief,” he says, sticking an accusing finger in Enjolras’ face. “The day I see my Éponine in a committed relationship will be the day you finally convince me that _ The Last Jedi _ is a bad movie.”

“None of us are trying to convince you of that, R,” Enjolras says. “Also, what is it with you and jumping to conclusions? All of you are my friends. Éponine is a _ friend._”

“Ah, speak of the devil and she doth appear,” Combeferre comments, smiling brightly past Enjolras and prompting him to turn around and see Éponine standing there. She flashes Combeferre a smirk.

“Always a pleasure, Julien Combeferre.”

Her gaze falls to Enjolras next, and for some reason, he finds himself holding his breath as she regards him, watching as she deliberately swipes her tongue between her teeth, gaze dragging up from his shoes to his mouth to his eyes. Enjolras isn’t blind—he’s always considered her beautiful, but in a far different way from the way Cosette, Musichetta, or even Éponine’s own sister Azelma are. A dangerous sort of way. Her smile a little too sharp, her words laced with venom. She’s beautiful in that sort of way that makes him think he’s much better off admiring her from afar, steering clear of her crimson-stained lips and thrifted leather jackets.

He can see why people would call her that. The devil. Being raised in a rural Bible Belt town has left him with ample knowledge of this sort of thing. About the devil actually being God’s favourite angel, and the most beautiful. No red horns or sharp talons like everyone seems to think. He knows how tempting the devil can be, even to the purest of saints.

A brazen smirk tugs at her lips and she takes a step forward to lean past him, stomach pressing into his thigh, to grab his drink off the counter. Enjolras watches as she downs his gin and tonic in one go—_who _ does she think she is, honestly—and he can’t seem to stop himself from staring at the line of her throat as she tips her head back.

“Thanks for the drink, pretty boy,” Éponine says rather obnoxiously as she slams the empty cup back down on the counter. Enjolras eyes the red staining the lip of his cup and swallows.

Grantaire narrows his eyes at Éponine’s toothy grin. “Jesus, Éponine.”

Éponine sticks up her middle finger at him and shoots a pointed look his way. “Hey, I think I saw Courf out there on the dance floor, why don’t you and ’Ferre go join him or something? Maybe put something halfway decent on the jukebox? Just throwing out suggestions here.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes but does as she tells him anyway, grabbing hold of Combeferre’s wrist and dragging him out into the crowd, through the throng of drunken college students, leaving Enjolras there with Éponine. Enjolras watches her, rather wary, as she orders themselves drinks from Musichetta and throws her a sickeningly sweet grin for good measure.

Éponine hops up onto a bar stool as Musichetta rolls her eyes with a laugh and walks away, and Enjolras tries not to pay any heed to the way she gracefully crosses her suede boot–clad legs at the ankles, to the pink, purple, and blue watercolour-stain tattoo peeking out of the neckline of her tank top, to the sweat dotting her forehead and matting her waves of brown hair to the nape of her neck. She’s hypnotising without even trying to be. It’s damn near impossible not to fall under her spell.

Musichetta returns to hand them a round of kamikaze shots before going on her break, slinking out from behind the counter and onto the dance floor to join Cosette, who currently has an arm slung around Grantaire’s shoulders and vice versa, the two of them drunkenly screaming along to “Piano Man”. Éponine snorts.

“Fine crowd we’ve got tonight,” she comments, deadpan.

She takes a shot before turning back towards him, crimson lips glossy and plump, and for a fleeting moment, Enjolras is distracted by an intense longing to sink his teeth into them. A streak of red drags along the back of her hand after she wipes her mouth with it, and it seems that he can’t get a moment of peace, with how he now has this mental image of her marking him with her mouth, leaving lipstick stains all over him where her hands can’t reach, and—

Jesus, where the fuck did _ that _ come from?

Enjolras knocks back a couple of shots himself, the liquid sharp and hot and burning as it slides down his throat, and shakes himself out of it. Ridding his mind of all sordid thoughts about her. She merely intrigues him, that’s all, what with how distant she can be, keeping virtually everyone at arm’s length. He reasons that must be the cause of… whatever the fuck that was.

Éponine leans forward, so close Enjolras can smell the alcohol on her breath, glimpse her purple eyeliner smudged at the corners of her eyes and the small bit of lipstick on one of her canines. All of her weight rests on the arm she places on his thigh. Enjolras’ breath catches in his throat.

Éponine’s dark eyes shine under the fluorescent lights, fiery, and her teeth are razor-sharp as she leans in closer, tugging his bottom lip into her mouth.

Enjolras is pretty sure his brain might have just short-circuited.

Her mouth just barely hovers over his, a mere breath away. Hesitant as she waits for his permission. And clearly he isn’t thinking straight, because of course she has it. Without thinking, he grabs a fistful of her hair and pulls her in closer, tugs her to him, and she’s grinning against his teeth, which makes it rather hard to kiss her, but somehow he can’t find it in himself to complain.

He thinks if Combeferre or Courfeyrac or anyone else were to find them like this, he wouldn’t really know how to explain it. Éponine’s never flirted with him before. At least, he doesn’t think she has. He’s seen the way she flirts with people; he would have known long ago if he had been one of them. But it doesn’t matter right now, not with her insistent lips on his, her fingers tangled in his hair.

Enjolras stops thinking when Éponine pulls away from him and hops down from the bar stool to take his hand and drag him into the bathroom. He stops thinking when he hears the click of the lock behind her and she walks up to him in that tiny confined space to whisper against his mouth, “It’s just this once, okay? I’m bored and, well. You’re cute.” He stops thinking when she jumps up onto the bathroom counter and hooks her legs around his waist to pull him in closer.

He really has no idea what the fuck is going on, but it isn’t his fault. It isn’t his fault when she does that thing with her lips against his neck and it eliminates all rational thought, effectively blocking out the sensible part of his brain that tells him to push her away instead of pulling her closer. He pulls her closer, and it isn’t his fault.

* * *

(That was a lie. It happens more than once.)

* * *

It’s a Sunday night and he’s in the campus library studying for a history exam he has the next day with a boy from his class. He’s got a pretty good grasp of the Napoleonic Wars, has a lot of it memorised already, but he struggles to explain it to Arthur, what with how memories of the night after last are stuck on playback in his mind. Sweaty and naked in Éponine’s bed, her harsh breaths in his ear as he trailed kisses along her collarbone, her little gasps as his large hands moved along the curve of her hips, her breathless moans as his tongue traced lazy patterns on the inside of her thigh before he properly lowered his mouth to her, her pleasured cries as he pounded into her harder and harder until she broke apart at the seams with a fierce cry of his name. Honestly, what the _ fuck _ is wrong with him.

“How am I supposed to remember all this for the test?” Arthur mumbles, mostly to himself, soon followed by a quiet, sardonic chuckle. His fingers drum against the tabletop, rhythmic, insistent. No doubt the result of the five empty cups of coffee sitting beside him. They’ve been at it for about six hours now, only stopping for bathroom or snack breaks, so it’s no wonder he’s so restless. “I guess this is what I get for waiting until the last minute, huh?”

“Mhm.” Enjolras can only hum absently in agreement, telling Arthur to make some flashcards to help with their memory. He’s halfway through mapping out the Battle of Waterloo in detail when he gets a text.

**Éponine: you busy???**

Enjolras sighs. He really doesn’t have the time to indulge her at the moment, and he tells her just as much. Not that it seems to faze her, with how she texts him again three minutes later.

**Éponine: combeferre says you’ve been there for like six hours now, not to be blunt but that’s real worrying chief**

**Éponine: how important is this test anyway**

**Éponine: let me come over**

Enjolras bites his lip and sighs. He finds that he’s currently having a problem with saying no to Éponine. It’s quite a lot harder than he previously thought it would ever be. **Later.** He texts back with that one word before he finally turns his phone off, trying not to feel too guilty about it.

Arthur watches him out of the corner of his eye, raising his eyebrows. “Girlfriend trouble?”

“What? No, I—she’s not my girlfriend.” Enjolras’ cheeks burn as he shakes his head, stares at the phone sitting right there on the table. She does this every time. She comes over to his apartment to fuck him, or she invites him to hers to hang out and their hanging out almost always turns into sex, and she always says something about how _ this is the last time _ or _ this doesn’t mean anything, okay? _ Every single time. Like it’s her mantra or something. Sometimes it feels like she’s trying to remind herself more than him, because he knows this already. There’s no way he can possibly forget that when she inevitably gets bored of this, gets bored of _him_, she’ll move on to someone else.

And he gets it. He does. She’s always been rather guarded so most of them don’t really know the full story, but he does know how when she and her siblings were kids, their father turned cruel while their mother stopped caring and it understandably fucked them up. She forced herself to take on the task of caring for her siblings when it became clear that nobody else was willing to do that, protecting them from the worst of their father’s blows, all while living in a dirty hovel with a leaky roof that can barely pass as an apartment. Apparently her parents genuinely liked each other, once upon a time, before everything went to shit. Enjolras thinks that’s why she hasn’t really had the best track record when it comes to the men she occasionally allows into her life. A walking cliché if he ever saw one.

But he never asks much of her. He only takes what she’s willing to give, and that’s okay with him. Really, it is.

Enjolras doesn’t realise he’s spaced out, distracted by thoughts of Éponine again, before he’s brought back to earth by Arthur placing his hand on his arm, asking if he’s alright, saying that maybe they should just call it a night.

“Why don’t you go ahead?” Enjolras says, redirecting all his attention to the textbook lying open in front of him and not to his phone. “I’ll study a bit more.”

“If you’re sure,” Arthur replies, a little uncertain, but he’s already gathering his things and stuffing them in his backpack. Before he leaves, he pauses by Enjolras’ seat and places a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, don’t work yourself too hard. Get some rest. Sleep deprivation won’t do you any favours with the test tomorrow.”

Enjolras smiles gratefully up at him and what looks like a faint blush spreads through Arthur’s cheeks, and it almost makes him forget about Éponine for a moment. “I’ll keep that in mind, thank you. Have a good night, I’ll see you later.”

Once Arthur’s gone, Enjolras stares blankly at the textbook in front of him, reading the same paragraph over and over again and not processing a word, and he spends fifteen minutes doing that before he mutters to himself, “Fuck it.” Grabbing his phone, he turns it back on and texts Éponine, tells her that he should be home in twenty minutes or so, that he’ll be waiting for her to come over. Waiting for her like he always does.

On the way home, driving through the pouring rain, he imagines her face when he opens the door to let her inside, uninhibited in the way she strides in and sits on his bed as if she owns the place, and she’ll let him touch her without restraint and she’ll lie with him through the night until he falls asleep, and she’ll be long gone by the time the sun rises the next morning. Her side of the bed will already be cold when he wakes up. This is how it goes.

* * *

It’s Courfeyrac’s birthday so they’ve made the mistake of letting him plan their entire day, which led to where they are now, drunk in a karaoke bar after getting kicked out of a bowling alley, going to see a Broadway matinee, and clogging their arteries at Applebee’s. Enjolras sits on a vinyl couch between Combeferre and Éponine, the latter’s shoulder pressing into his, as they watch Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta power through a truly dreadful rendition of “Love Shack”.

Éponine has a Long Island Iced Tea in hand, her second drink of the night, resting it against her denim-clad kneecap, the one that lacks the gaping hole. She seems to be enjoying it enough, if only ironically, with the way she bobs her head along in time to the beat, a barely-there grin playing at her lips.

She looks at Enjolras when Musichetta stumbles off the little platform and hands her mic to Grantaire, who jumps up beside Joly and Bossuet along with Bahorel, who’s picked up a microphone of his own, just as the opening notes of “I Want It That Way” ring out through the room. Éponine bumps Enjolras’ shoulder and cocks her head, a little smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth. “You going to go up there and sing something, pretty boy?”

Enjolras just smiles at her, cheeks growing warm. “Maybe later, if I’ve had more to drink.”

Éponine nods and just looks at him, scrutinises him, for a good several moments before she finally returns her gaze to Grantaire, Joly, Bossuet, and Bahorel making fools of themselves in their wannabe Backstreet Boys moment. They’re practically tripping over each other by the key change, pretty much everyone else singing along, and Éponine shoots to her feet when they finish, handing her drink to Enjolras. He takes it from her without question, senses Combeferre side-eyeing him because of it.

Éponine takes the stage and grabs the microphone from Grantaire, blowing a kiss in his direction and sending him on his way. He just narrows his eyes at her, asking, “Whatcha gonna do, _ sweetheart_?”

A corner of her mouth turns up in a smirk. “I’ll show you how it’s really done, _ darling_.”

The opening chords of “I Love Rock ’n’ Roll” blasts over the loudspeakers as Éponine places the mic back on its stand, hips swaying from side to side, tossing her hair over one shoulder. Enjolras gazes at her, rather transfixed, as she starts to sing.

“Huh.” He looks up at Combeferre’s voice, looks over to see him watching Éponine with a faint hint of wonder in his eyes. “She’s really quite good, isn’t she?”

“Yeah. Yeah, she is.” Enjolras returns his gaze to Éponine, equally as mesmerised. Her version might be even better than the original, with how she adds in her own little flair, fully belting out the lyrics as opposed to almost speaking them the way Joan Jett does. He never even knew she could sing like that. Sometimes, when she’s lying in his bed after and he’s trying to keep awake for as long as he possibly can before she leaves as she always inevitably does, he’ll hear her humming a tune under her breath. Most of the time he doesn’t recognise it, since he’s only accustomed to Taylor Swift or the late twentieth–century hits he was raised on, or whatever is on the Top 40 that week. When he does, it’s almost always the Jonas Brothers, for some inexplicable reason.

He doesn’t notice Combeferre watching him out of the corner of his eye before he places a hand over his, gives it a gentle squeeze. “You like her, don’t you?”

Combeferre knows of their arrangement, of course. He’s the only one of Les Amis who does. Officially, at least. (Enjolras knows better than to think Courfeyrac isn’t listening at the door whenever he talks about it with Combeferre, seizing every opportunity to eavesdrop. Really, the only reason he hasn’t actually told Courfeyrac face-to-face is because of the latter’s tendency to dispense terrible advice.)

Enjolras smiles, rather doleful. “I’m still trying to figure that out myself.”

Combeferre nods slowly, just stares at him for a little bit more before he quietly pronounces, “I think you do.”

Enjolras finally tears his gaze away from Éponine up on that little platform, raising his eyebrows as he looks at Combeferre. “Really, how so?”

Combeferre smiles rather wryly. “Well, for one thing, you’re still holding her drink for her.” Enjolras glances down, feels his cheeks burn when he realises that oh, yeah, he is. He looks back up at Combeferre, who continues, “And I know you, Enjolras. You care about her.”

“I care about all of us,” Enjolras replies, almost reflexively.

Combeferre laughs under his breath. “I know you do. But with Éponine, it’s just…” He trails off, then shrugs. Enjolras scans Combeferre’s countenance for a hint of something, _ anything_, but his expression remains inscrutable. “I don’t know. She’s hard to read. But I don’t think falling for her is going to do you any favours.”

Enjolras bites his lip as he looks back at Éponine, her eyes closed, a little self-satisfied smile on her face, hips swaying from side to side in time to the music. So completely, utterly relaxed. “I know,” he murmurs at last, in response to Combeferre. “But it’s okay.” He gives Combeferre something of a dry smile, attempting to emulate Courfeyrac in the way he says, “I’m a big boy, ’Ferre, I’m sure I can handle myself.”

Combeferre laughs and gives his hand another squeeze before he brings his drink to his mouth and takes a sip. Enjolras sits there, watching Éponine, and for a moment there, he catches her eye and holds her gaze until she stumbles a little over the lyrics, forcing her to tear her gaze away from him. A corner of his mouth tugs up in a vaguely triumphant smile. It’s a little satisfying, knowing that she’s not entirely unaffected. He bows his head and smiles to himself.

* * *

One night a couple of weeks later, Enjolras lets her in when she knocks on his door, and she grins impishly up at him as she strides in and kicks off her shoes, walking right past him and into the living room. Her dark hair is up in a high ponytail and she’s wearing navy-blue sweatpants that really don’t go with the purple NYU hoodie she has on that seems to be five sizes too big for her. Come to think of it, Enjolras thinks he’s got a couple of hoodies missing from his closet.

She takes a seat on the armrest of one of the plush ancient armchairs and stares up at him. It’s like she’s incapable of sitting like a normal person. “You know, you should really just give me my own key,” she remarks casually. “It’d make things a fuck of a lot easier.”

Before Enjolras can respond, Combeferre comes in from the kitchen, carrying a small plate of cookies Enjolras made earlier. Snickerdoodles, chocolate chip, gingersnaps. He sets the plate down on the coffee table, giving Éponine a warm smile. “They’re fresh. Mostly. Help yourself.”

“Well, how domestic of you.” Éponine grabs a snickerdoodle and takes a big bite out of it, grins and turns to Enjolras, saying through a mouthful of cookie, “Did you make these, pretty boy?”

Enjolras shrugs and gives her the tiniest of close-lipped smiles. “Yes, I did.”

Éponine looks back to Combeferre and grins even wider, wiggling her eyebrows. “Hey, ’Ferre, can we switch roommates? R sets the smoke alarm off making instant ramen.” She snorts, shaking her head. “Like, _ really_. Fucking _ instant ramen_.”

Combeferre laughs good-naturedly. “I think Courfeyrac and I will keep him, thanks. But you’re welcome to borrow him whenever you like.”

Éponine grins something wicked at him. “I already do.” Shoving the rest of the snickerdoodle she’s holding into her mouth, she questions, “Where is Courf anyway?”

“Out,” Enjolras answers, matter-of-fact. “He’s probably gone clubbing.”

Éponine raises her eyebrows. “What, and you two didn’t want to come with?”

“It’s not my scene,” Combeferre says with a shrug. “And I don’t imagine it’s Enjolras’ either.”

Éponine laughs, a low, husky sound from deep in the back of her throat. Combeferre smiles at her and Enjolras both before he retreats into his bedroom, presumably sensing that something’s on the verge of happening, with the way Enjolras gazes at her, not seeming to notice anything else.

Éponine wipes the crumbs left behind from her cookie on her sweatpants, turning her head to look at Enjolras and cocking her head. “Quit looking at me like that, pretty boy.”

His cheeks burn scarlet. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologise. I’m just saying.” Éponine smiles then, dangerous, enticing, and she gets up to make her way over to him, shoving him down onto the sofa and climbing into his lap. Her fingers are sticky against his cheeks and he can taste the literal sugar and spice on her lips, eager, demanding, and oh, he likes this, with her, but—

Enjolras pulls away from her, putting his hand on her arm and drawing back, distancing himself.

“What?” Éponine asks, breathless, incredulous. The way she purses her lips at him is not helping. “Why did you stop?”

“Not tonight,” Enjolras murmurs. Fleetingly, he wonders if he’s going to regret this. Probably. Definitely.

Her eyebrows furrow in confusion, a line forming between her brows. “Well, okay, if that’s what you want, I guess. I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

She’s just pulled herself out of his lap and gets up, and try as he might, he can’t help but laugh quietly as he reaches out to gently wrap his hand around her wrist and pull her back down. “Where are you going? You know you can stay.” He meets her gaze and swallows at how intense her dark eyes have become, confused, quizzical. “You’re my friend, Éponine. Just because we have sex sometimes doesn’t mean we can’t still spend time together as friends.”

Éponine chews on her bottom lip, contemplative, as she stares at him like he’s grown a second head. Eventually, though, she concedes, plops down beside him. “So what do you want to do, then?”

Enjolras shrugs. He can think of quite a few things he wants to do with her, but he keeps telling himself _ not tonight not tonight not tonight_. He never wants her to think he’s only in this for the sex, that it’s merely sex for him—that might be the case for her, but it’s certainly not for him. He wants her to know that he likes her, that he enjoys her company even without them doing anything particularly exciting. He likes spending time with her. She’s his _ friend_. One of his best friends.

When he looks at her again, she’s gone back to eating a snickerdoodle, specks of sugar outlining her mouth. She catches him looking and raises her eyebrows.

“So?” she presses, her voice rather thick, due to the amount of cookie in her mouth. “We’re just going to stare at each other all night?”

Enjolras laughs under his breath as he reaches out to wipe away the sugar around her mouth with his thumb. “I wouldn’t mind that.”

Éponine rolls her eyes, feigning exasperation. “Of course you wouldn’t. Let’s go somewhere.”

They end up going on a drive through and out of the city with the windows rolled down in her beat-up junkyard scrap of a Chevy truck, a 1987 model with a bench seat and the cassette deck intact. Éponine drives at first before approximately ten minutes into the drive, she declares that she’s tired, so Enjolras takes the wheel. He drives slow so he can occasionally steal a glance at her and she can pretend to remain oblivious. She fucks around with the radio, flipping through stations every five minutes or so until she finds a song that satisfies her. She dramatically mouths along to that one Radiohead song that everyone knows, and he chuckles and shakes his head when she tries to get him to sing along.

(He likes her with her high-heeled boots and crimson lips and sharp tongue, but he likes her like this, too. Her arm dangling out the open window, bare feet up on the dash. Windswept hair, a light-hearted laugh, dimples in her cheeks, a soft smile to go with that soft heart. And they’re all wrong about her, he thinks. She isn’t the devil; she’s an angel, an angel whose halo just got fractured a tiny bit on the way down, that’s all. Devils, angels, it’s all the same to her, but not to him. She really isn’t as bad as they all seem to think. Herself included.

God, he wonders how one girl can be such a damn paradox. He wonders when he was the one who became the cliché.)

It’s rather chilly out that night, and they’ve got no particular destination in mind. They drive and drive for God only knows how long until they’re out in a clearing at the edge of a forest, and almost the moment Enjolras parks, Éponine hops out and onto the hood of the truck, legs dangling off the edge. He comes and joins her, sitting beside her and watching her as she gazes up at the stars, millions of twinkling lights sprinkled across the heavens.

“I ran into Montparnasse earlier today,” she says out of the blue. A slight scowl pulls the corners of her mouth downwards. “He told me my parents are out of jail on parole now. There’s no word from my mom, he said, so I’m just going to assume she’s finally realised that the best thing she can do now is just stay the fuck out of my and Zel and Gav’s lives and not fuck us up any more than she already did.” She snorts then, derisive. “But apparently my father wants to come see us. Me and Zel and Gav, I mean.”

Enjolras doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he just lets her scoot closer to him and lay her head on his shoulder. The air smells of pine and she’s warm beside him. “Are you going to let him?” he asks softly.

Éponine shrugs, dismissive. “Not really sure yet, to be honest,” she says. “What would _ you _ do?”

“I don’t know.” Enjolras watches her out of the corner of his eye, watches how she’s fixed her gaze on the skies above them. “I never went through what you and your siblings went through. I don’t know why abusive parents are the way they are. But I think I would let him. Just to hear what he has to say.”

“Yeah, well, the thing is, I don’t care whatever his reasons were for being an abusive fuck to us, because no matter how hard you try, how far you reach, you just can’t fucking justify abusing your _ own fucking children _ when it was _ your _ choice to bring them into the world in the first place, so I don’t give a flying _ fuck _ about what he has to say,” Éponine spits, bitterness dripping from every word. Enjolras feels her shoulders tensing up beside him.

“Then there’s your answer.”

Éponine lets loose a long-winded sigh, toys with the hem of her hoodie. Enjolras considers taking her hand in his but figures that she probably wouldn’t like that, so he leaves his palms planted firmly behind him against the hood of the truck.

“Sometimes I wonder if things might’ve been easier if he’d just straight-up left,” she mumbles, hugging her knees to her chest. “Like, don’t get me wrong, it still would’ve been shitty as fuck, but at least then I wouldn’t have had to deal with him and my mom fighting every other night, for so many years, and him taking it out on me after, while dear mother got drunk to forget everything. It’s hard to believe they actually _ liked _ each other once.” She bites her lip, eyes downcast, angry. “I just can’t stop hating him. It’s fucking _ exhausting_, hating someone this much. Why can’t I just get the fuck over it?”

“Well, you have a right to be angry,” Enjolras says. He’s seen the faded and fading scars all over her body. He never comments on them, never wants to make her uncomfortable by questioning her about them, but he knows that she knows he knows. “He abused your mom and your siblings and you. Maybe that’s why now you’ve got severe commitment issues and a sex addiction to show for it?”

Éponine lifts her head up from his shoulder and looks at him, her eyebrows furrowed, quietly seething. She laughs, but there’s no humour in it, her relaxed gaze having morphed into an angry glare. “You know, for someone who claims to be such a feminist, you can say some seriously sexist shit sometimes without even realising it.”

Enjolras swallows, but before he can say anything, Éponine snaps, “So that’s what you think? I sleep around because of my _ daddy issues_?”

“Is—is that wrong?” Immediately, he realises that was the wrong thing to say.

She scoffs, scornful in the way she rolls her eyes. “How fucking typical. Let me make this clear, pretty boy: I would like sex regardless of whether or not I had a tragic backstory. I don’t need a goddamn reason. Tell me, did you have a shitty childhood? Did your dad hit you so hard you bled and your mom never did jack shit about it? Did you live in fear every damn day because the only reason your parents only barely managed to make ends meet was because they did illegal shit and you were terrified of the pigs showing up and busting them and making everything even worse than they already were? Were you forced to grow up too fast and take care of your little siblings yourself because you didn’t trust your parents to do that because they’d only ruin them the way they ruined you?”

“No—”

“And do you like sex?”

“No more than the next person. But yes, I suppose.”

“There you go. Now, would you say any of that shit to me if I’d grown up just like you did? Jesus fuck, it’s like you think a girl can’t have a lot of sex just because, _ God fucking forbid_, she likes it—there just _ has _ to be some sad, fucked-up reason behind it as justification.”

“I—” He stumbles over his words, quiet, remorseful, not entirely sure how to respond to that. “I’m so sorry. I—I didn’t—”

“Whatever.” Éponine rolls her eyes again, laughs dryly. “I know how it looks. I do. And you’re right, I guess, about the commitment issues thing. Partially. I like sex because I like sex. But I don’t get into relationships with people, especially guys, because I don’t trust them when they say they’re going to stay.” She narrows her eyes at him, cocking her head. “No offence, but you guys kinda suck ass.”

Enjolras laughs quietly, his gaze going soft. “I’m aware. At any rate, I’m sorry.”

“Nah, don’t apologise.” She lays her head on his shoulder again, hugging her knees. “You can be kind of an idiot sometimes, but you’re one of the few I actually like.”

“What about the others?” he points out. “I don’t think eleven boys are very few.”

“Of course _ you _ don’t,” she mutters, but it’s more absent-minded than aggressive. “I’ve known a lot of men in my life, you know. Eleven is relatively few. And one of them’s my brother, so that doesn’t even count.”

They fall silent again, leaning back against the windshield and gazing up at the sky. It’s a clear night, with a good amount of stars out, the full moon basking in their glow. They don’t get that in the city. Eventually, Enjolras speaks up again.

“What would you do?” he asks, even though he knows he really shouldn’t. But she’s finally opening up to him, allowing herself to break down the walls she’s built up around herself, and he doesn’t know if she’s ever going to be this vulnerable around him (or in general, honestly) again. She lifts her head up from his shoulder at the sound of his voice to look at him. “If someone told you that they loved you, and they really, truly meant it, would you just not believe them?”

“You better not be thinking about declaring your undying love for me, pretty boy,” Éponine responds sarcastically, but he can hear the warning edge to her tone.

“No, of course not.” Enjolras bites down hard on his bottom lip. “I was just wondering.”

Éponine scoots up a bit more on the hood, almost leaning back against the windshield. Enjolras follows. “I think,” she says, slowly, hesitantly, considering her words, “I think that they may _ believe _ that they mean it, but it won’t matter, because it’s all just going to end anyway. People never stay together forever. It just doesn’t work like that.”

Enjolras purses his lips. “I think you might be the most cynical person I’ve ever met, did you know that?” he tells her frankly. She just shrugs in response. “So what you’re saying is, essentially, you don’t believe in love.”

“No, it’s not that I don’t believe in it, exactly.” Éponine frowns to herself, her words slow, like she’s trying to think of a way to effectively put down in words what goes on inside that head of hers. Enjolras would really like to know.

She sighs, resting her chin on her kneecaps. “It’s just that—no matter how much people may love each other, it isn’t going to last. So what’s the point?” She bites her lip, a faraway look in her eyes as she clicks her tongue, rather distant as she mumbles, “Everyone leaves. Sooner or later, they all do.”

His heart _ breaks_.

“But you do love,” he reminds her, his voice soft. “You love your siblings and Grantaire and Cosette and Musichetta. And the rest of us.” When he realises how presumptuous that sounds, he adds, “At least, I hope so.”

Éponine snorts. “Yeah, because that isn’t romantic love. Try to keep up, pretty boy.”

Enjolras laughs, but it sounds rather hollow, even to his own ears. “Well, I believe in love, I suppose,” he murmurs. “All forms of it. And I understand why you don’t, because of your parents, but that doesn’t mean everyone’s going to be like that.”

“Please don’t lecture me about how I just have to wait for the right person to come along and it’ll change my mind, or whatever bullshit you think would make me believe you,” Éponine says before he can say anything else. “Because that’s just _ not _ something _ you _ of all people would do. I’d probably just end up thinking you and, like, Jehan switched heads or something.”

Enjolras laughs a little, caught off-guard. “I wasn’t planning to?”

“Okay, _ good_, that would’ve been concerning.” She tilts her head to the side, regarding him, holding his gaze. “Maybe I just don’t _ want _ to fall in love right now,” she suggests, and there’s something of a sardonic bite to her tone. “Have you ever considered that, pretty boy? We’re still pretty young. I’ve got plenty of time for all _ that _ drama when I’m older.”

“Well, I suppose you’re right.” He watches as she goes back to staring up at the sky, fixated on the stars. “But still. Sometimes you can’t help when you fall in love.”

She looks back at him, dark eyes unreadable as she finds his gaze. “Lucky for me, I haven’t reached that point yet, right?”

“Yes. Lucky you.”

* * *

They spend time stargazing for a bit, going back into the truck when the sting of the cold air becomes too much, kissing in between talking and talking in between kissing. He’s got his hand down the front of her pants and her shaky moans and breathless sighs are ringing out through the air by the time the police come along sometime past midnight to kick them out. Éponine grumpily complies, cursing them out under her breath for interrupting her orgasm as Enjolras licks his fingers clean and wipes them off on his pants, cheeks flushed scarlet, pointedly avoiding eye contact with the officers. As he drives them back to his place, she offhandedly requests a key so she can come back tomorrow, and of course he gives one to her without question, because she’s got him wrapped around her little finger now, apparently.

As he watches her fiddle with the knobs on the radio out of the corner of his eye, he can’t help but think about how the more he finds himself falling for her, the more unattainable to him she seems to become. She finally settles on a station, and he recognises the Billy Joel song that he can hear her humming along to.

_ She can kill with a smile_

_She can wound with her eyes_

_She can ruin your faith with her casual lies_

_And she only reveals what she wants you to see_

_She hides like a child, but she’s always a woman to me_

If she knows that the song reminds him of her, she makes no mention of it.

* * *

Enjolras is on his way out of his history lecture when he sees Arthur by the exit, waiting for him. They’ve never really talked much outside of class and all things related, but he’s good company, Enjolras thinks.

“Hey.” He smiles, falling into step beside him. “How have you been?”

“Pretty good, all things considered,” Arthur responds as they walk out of the building together. He really is quite cute, with his curly brown hair cropped short and an endearing nervousness in the way he fidgets with his hands.

“Did you check what you got on the exam?” he asks. Somehow Enjolras gets the feeling that that’s not really what he wants to talk about, but he plays along.

“Yes, I passed with an A,” he says, burying his hands in his jacket pockets. “You?”

“That’s awesome! I got an A minus,” Arthur tells him brightly, before he clears his throat and composes himself. “Maybe we should study together more?”

Enjolras bites back a smile. “That would be nice. Sure.”

“Okay. Cool,” Arthur responds, seeming to relax a bit more as he places his hands in his pockets. “We should—we should go get a coffee, or—or something. Sometime. Maybe. Or whatever. If you want.” He averts his gaze, blushing something fierce at the way he stumbled over his words.

Enjolras smiles, chuckles softly. “Why not?” he agrees, when he feels his phone buzz in his pocket. He fishes it out to find a text from Éponine, gaze fixed on the screen as he says rather absently, “Coffee sounds great.”

**Éponine: i think i’ll let him.**

“Enjolras?” Arthur calls, his voice rather quiet, but it still manages to draw Enjolras’ attention away from his phone. When he looks at him expectantly, Arthur asks after a few bouts of hesitation, “You’re not seeing anyone at the moment, are you?”

Enjolras hesitates. He’s going to need a more detailed definition of ‘seeing someone’. Because right now, it’s incredibly vague.

When he doesn’t respond right away, Arthur amends, “I mean, do you have a girlfriend or boyfriend or whatever?”

Ah. Now that’s more specific. “No. I haven’t seriously dated anyone in a while,” Enjolras replies truthfully. “Listen, I have to go, but I’ll see you later, alright? Just text me whenever you want to get coffee.”

“Sounds good!” Arthur positively beams at him, all teeth, and Enjolras can’t help but smile back before he goes on his way, dialling Éponine’s number and shoving his free hand into his pocket as he stands on a street corner, waiting for her to pick up.

When she finally does to tell him what happened, she admits that it was mostly Azelma’s choice in wanting their father to come—she’s always been the most trusting, the most forgiving of the three Thénardier siblings. Éponine and Gavroche had been reluctant before eventually agreeing, although she still has her doubts. Their father isn’t due to be in the city for another week, at least, so they have time to prepare. The four are having lunch together at Olive Garden this weekend, apparently. Éponine gripes about how there are plenty of actual Italian restaurants out there in the city they could go to instead, but _ no_, he clearly wants her to suffer.

Enjolras doesn’t tell her, but he’s rather worried that this could all go horribly, horribly wrong. From what little he’s heard of her father, he sounds like a completely irredeemable, self-serving bastard. But he knows Éponine, knows that there’s a faint flicker of hope burning somewhere deep inside her, a fragile little flame that could burn out the moment disappointment and heartbreak takes over. The fact that she might face that could be damaging. He doesn’t want her to lose her softness because of it, to close herself off again, to shut everybody out.

He tells her that she doesn’t have to forgive her father if she doesn’t want to, and she says she’s still undecided about the matter at the moment. So he just tells her that he’s always there for her no matter what happens, that he’ll always be there for her, and she can always call him if she wants.

He hears her little breath of relief at the other end, and she whispers, _ “Thanks, Enjolras.” _ That’s enough for him.

* * *

“So what’s the deal with you and Éponine?” Courfeyrac asks him a couple of nights later, as they’re lounging on the sofa and passing a bowl of popcorn between themselves while they watch _ The Princess Bride_. Combeferre is out, currently at the campus library, if Enjolras is to go by the last text he received from him.

Enjolras sighs, taking a handful of popcorn and popping them into his mouth one by one. “What do you mean?”

Courfeyrac rolls his eyes and mimics his sigh. “What do you mean, ‘what do you mean?’ It’s kind of, like, really obvious to everyone that you’ve got some sort of feelings for her. And I know you’re sleeping with her, Enj, I mean, come on, you know I like my midnight snacks, and I’ve seen her sneaking out of your room at three in the morning sometimes when I go to get some.” He cocks his head as he scrutinises Enjolras, narrowing his eyes. “You’ve also been acting kinda weird around her lately. Like she’s some fragile thing you’re scared of breaking. You’re kind of…” He searches for the right words, teeth digging into his bottom lip as he does. “Delicate. With her. If that makes any sense.”

Enjolras frowns. “No, that doesn’t really make sense. No offence. Could you please elaborate?”

Courfeyrac sighs again, for real this time, as he sits up straighter. “It’s just that—I know she’s got a lot on her plate. Gavroche told me they’re seeing their dad for the first time in, like, years this weekend. And he fucked them up. You don’t want her getting hurt by him again. You don’t want _ them _ getting hurt by him again.”

He reaches out, placing his hand on Enjolras’ shoulder. “I get it. None of us want them getting hurt again. But they’re tough. Éponine especially. She can handle it.”

Enjolras cracks a little smile, half-hearted. “That doesn’t mean she should have to.”

“Yeah, I know. Life’s a bitch. To some people more than others.”

They go quiet again, just watching the movie (_“I want my father back, you son of a bitch,” _ Courfeyrac mouths along, pumping his fist triumphantly when Count Rugen gets impaled) before he speaks up again. “You know, it’s not going to do you any good, falling for Éponine.”

“I’m well aware, thank you, Courfeyrac,” Enjolras mumbles, suddenly becoming very interested in the popcorn bowl in his lap.

Courfeyrac bites his lip and shrugs. “I’m just saying. It might be better to just stop now before it gets any worse, chief.”

Enjolras smiles wanly and gazes back at the television screen, watching Westley and Buttercup as they share a kiss and murmuring nearly inaudibly, “I think it might already be too late for that.”

* * *

Enjolras doesn’t want to say that he spends much of Saturday morning worrying about Éponine, but that’s exactly what he does.

Courfeyrac and Combeferre are out, Courfeyrac at a cousin’s engagement party and Combeferre getting coffee with Feuilly, which means Enjolras has the place to himself, which also means he’s got nothing to do other than twiddle his thumbs and wait for Éponine’s call. Occasionally he picks his phone up to check for the dates of any upcoming rallies he’s involved in. There aren’t going to be any proper rallies for another couple of months or so—only meetings discussing the matter until then. He briefly entertains the thought of asking Éponine if she would like to come along to one of them.

When the clock on the kitchen counter reads _ 12:30pm _ in harsh red digits, his worry only intensifies. He wonders if their father has gotten there yet, if maybe he showed up early to show a genuine desire to mend things. Or maybe he’s running late and Éponine, Azelma, and Gavroche are just sitting there in Olive Garden eating breadsticks, waiting for him. The mere thought of it makes something in his chest ache.

The hours tick by and Enjolras eventually distracts himself from just _ waiting _ for a call from Éponine, bringing out the ingredients to make snickerdoodles and tuning into a radio station on his phone as he does, the device placed near the edge of the kitchen island. Around four o’clock, he’s taking the last batch of cookies out of the oven and humming along to a Joy Division song before it’s drowned out by an incoming call.

Enjolras hurries over to see Éponine’s name flashing across his screen, and he feels like he can finally breathe again.

“Éponine?”

_ “Hey, pretty boy,” _ she murmurs on the other end. _ “What are you up to right now?” _

“Um, a lot of things, actually,” he says, even though that is decidedly not true, considering how he’s spent the past three hours stress-baking. “I’m a fully functioning adult with a productive schedule.”

_ “Oh, shit, is now a bad time?” _ Éponine backtracks, saying, _ “I can always call you back later—” _

“No! No, I’m kidding.” Enjolras coughs, taking his apron off and sitting down on the sofa. “I’m not really doing anything anymore. You can talk to me.” After a pause, he asks tentatively, “So how did it go?”

Éponine laughs a little, but something about it sounds off. _ “It was… _ interesting_. He was forty minutes late and wearing this hideous touristy floral shirt. The wine I ordered made it much more festive when Azelma threw a whole glass of it in his sorry fucking face and it got splashed all over his clothes and got us kicked out of the restaurant.” _

Enjolras grimaces. “So no feel-good family moment, I’m guessing?”

_ “Oh, no. That actually made me feel _ really _ good. But,” _ she pauses, sucks in a deep breath, _ “no. It didn’t go well. At all. All it did was drive the point home about how I don’t want him in my life. I can’t forgive him. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to.” _

“It’s okay,” he tells her, softly, as he grabs one of the knit blankets folded up and placed beneath the glass coffee table to wrap himself up in as he leans back against the sofa cushions. “You don’t have to forgive anyone who’s hurt you, Éponine.”

_ “It’s just that… he acted like _ nothing _ was wrong when he got there,” _ she murmurs. _ “Like the past, what, ten years never happened. Like he didn’t have to work towards getting our trust back, like we would just forgive him right then and there. I still remember _ everything_. I remember him coming home late at night and smelling like some other woman’s perfume. I remember how he’d fight with my mom at, like, two thirty a.m. and how sometimes he’d take off for days at a time after and my mom would say he was just cooling off. I remember him hitting me for the tiniest thing I did wrong, or whenever I tried standing up for myself. I just—I can’t stop _ remembering_, Enjolras.” _

“He’s a vile person. And he was a shitty father. You don’t owe him anything. Please don’t torture yourself like this.” His heart aches for her and he wishes he could just take away all her pain. She doesn’t deserve this. She doesn’t deserve any of this. After a pause, he asks, “How are Azelma and Gavroche?”

_ “Azelma’s pretty upset. Gavroche is just mad. I don’t think they can forgive him, either.” _

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out, Éponine,” Enjolras murmurs. “I really wish I could help.”

Éponine lets loose a long-winded sigh on the other end, and his heart grows even heavier. _ “I’m tired, Enjolras.” _

“Come over,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “I baked snickerdoodles. Or we can take a nap. It’s up to you.”

She stays quiet for so long on the other end, Enjolras starts to think that maybe she’s hung up on him, quietly, before she answers, _ “Okay,” _ and the feeling in his chest is considerably lighter again. _ “I’ll be there soon, leave the door unlocked.” _

“You have the key, remember?”

_ “Right. Sorry. I’ll give it back—” _

“It’s fine. Really. I’ll get a new one made.”

Éponine comes along about half an hour later, his key dangling from a thin chain around her neck, and she doesn’t say a word as she sits down on the sofa with him and curls into him, occasionally reaching out for the plate of snickerdoodles on the coffee table. Later, they go to his room and climb into bed, and he feels her soft breaths on his chest and presses his lips to the top of her head as his arms circle her waist. He leaves the radio on his phone on, and Enjolras thinks she’s fallen asleep until he hears her humming along, ever so faint, to the music in the background.

_ She can lead you to love_

_She can take you or leave you_

_She can ask for the truth, but she’ll never believe you_

_And she’ll take what you give her as long as it’s free_

_Yeah, she steals like a thief, but she’s always a woman to me_

* * *

Enjolras wakes up sometime around midnight and sees her sitting up with her back against his headboard, hugging her knees to her chest. He watches her as she stares up at the ceiling, dragging her gaze along the cracks. He does that sometimes when he can’t sleep as well.

She must sense that he’s woken up, with the way his breathing has gone rather shallow. She clears her throat before she speaks.

“I get nightmares, sometimes,” she murmurs. “And when I’m awake I’m always just thinking about what could go wrong, with everything that happens in my life. It just feels like I’m constantly spiralling. Everything is always so loud in my head.” She pauses then and he keeps silent, patient. Her hair is a bit of a tangled mess, lips raw and cracked with worry and anxiety, and he wants to tell her that she can always tell him anything, that he’s always there for her, but hopefully she knows that already, so he just sits up beside her and waits patiently. He’s good at that.

“But sometimes, in the quiet moments,” he’s frozen in place when she looks up at him and meets his eyes, only able to move again once her gaze moves back to the ceiling, “I think of you.”

He has no idea what to say, so he doesn’t say anything. Éponine looks back up at him and gives him the tiniest hint of a crooked smile, like maybe it’s a little too much confessing for a single night, too many things that shouldn’t be said. So she reaches up to cup his jaw in her small hand and leans in to kiss his mouth, moves to straddle him, tugging at the ends of his golden curls like it will make him forget.

He remembers when they first started doing this. How after, she’d turn on her side, facing away, her back to him. With that, the distance between them, only a few measly inches, somehow turned into miles, at least to him. It felt like a barrier of sorts that only she could break down when—_if _ she chooses. He doesn’t know what changed, not really, but in time, she stopped doing that, instead curling into him, trailing her fingers along his torso, tracing his abs, kissing his neck. He always finds himself hoping after that that she’d stay the night, but she never does, and he never asks her to.

(And he knows, he knows all too well that she doesn’t love him, not like that, and really, that’s okay. But he’s not sure if he can handle it anymore, the way she whispers “I can’t stay” against his lips when their limbs are intertwined, tangled in the sheets, his key coiled around her neck. He wonders if she can taste it, the love on his lips. Maybe she can. Maybe that’s why hers taste more like an apology.)

* * *

Bossuet gets the bright idea of having them mark the start of summer vacation by going to one of those retro roller rinks, so they do, making a game out of who can do the most spins without hurling, who can skate the fastest without crashing into someone, who can topple the most asshole high schoolers without getting kicked out. Quite frankly, all of those games sound ridiculous and sophomoric as well as highly questionable to Enjolras, but he supposes roller rinks are good fun overall. So he comes along.

Courfeyrac grabs his hand and forces him into skating with him to “Y.M.C.A.”, and not long after the song is finally, mercifully over, Enjolras stumbles out of the rink for a bit to catch his breath, maybe order a Coke or something. He stands on the outskirts of the rink, occasionally waving to the others whenever one passes by, watching as Musichetta and Joly help Bossuet up for the millionth time under the strobe lights. Looking over his shoulder, he sees Éponine and Grantaire sitting at one of the round tables near the greasy snack shack, eating slices of that—rather underwhelming, in his opinion—pizza they sell.

Éponine’s laughing uproariously at something Grantaire’s said, but Enjolras senses something off about it, with the way her smile doesn’t quite reach her ears, rather forced, too tight at the corners. She’s good at this, hiding the way she really feels and putting on a brave face for the sake of others, but sometimes he wishes she wouldn’t do that. She shouldn’t feel like she has to, at least.

He’s just finished his can of Coke and is about to go back out onto the rink when he receives a text.

**Arthur: So what do you say to that coffee? Does tomorrow noon sound good?**

Enjolras glances back to where Éponine is, her chin digging into the palm of her hand as she leans forward on that little table, talking casually with Grantaire. But somehow she seems rather ill at ease, her eyes too bright, her grin too forced. That disastrous lunch with her father was merely a week ago. Memories of it must still be fresh in her mind, memories that she’s trying desperately to push away.

He should say no.

**Me: Of course. Tomorrow sounds great.**

* * *

“You know, this is the _ one _ night you decide to sleep over, and of course I have a date in an hour,” Enjolras mutters mostly to himself as he rummages in his closet, still lacking in a shirt after he pulled on a pair of jeans. He hardly ever wears jeans.

Éponine’s head surfaces from beneath the sheets, her brow furrowed. “You have a what?”

“Never mind, it’s nothing,” he says a little too hastily as he buttons up a crimson shirt, leaving the top three buttons undone before he rolls his sleeves up to his elbows and runs his fingers through his hair. He fishes his leather shoes out of the back of the closet, sitting down at the edge of the bed and pulling his socks on. “I’m only getting coffee with someone.”

“Well, who is this _ someone_?” Éponine queries as she sits up straighter, wrapping herself up in the bedsheets, clutching them to her chest. There’s something off about her tone of voice that Enjolras can’t quite put his finger on.

“A boy,” he replies rather absently, pulling his shoes on and lacing them up, “from my history class.” As he sits up straighter, he says, “Really, it’s nothing. I don’t even think it _ is _ a date. He never specified.”

“God, you’re fucking dense,” Éponine mutters. “Of course it’s a date, pretty boy. Why the fuck are you like this.”

Enjolras frowns, looking back at her. “Like what?”

“Never mind! Just go before you’re late.” Éponine gets to her feet, the only thing covering her up being his bedsheets, and she shoves him out his bedroom door, following him to the front door.

“Alright, then. I guess I’ll see you later.” He grabs his keys from the table by the front door, which she opens for him.

She flashes him a tight-lipped smile, dimples in her cheeks barely perceptible. “Have fun.”

It’s only when he’s driving to the coffee shop does he realise that he leaned in to kiss Éponine’s forehead as a goodbye before he left, as if they’re _ domestic_, as if he isn’t literally leaving her to see someone else. Before he can dwell too much on the fact that _ yeah, this isn’t going to work out_, he turns on the radio to distract himself. It has the complete opposite effect.

_ Oh, she takes care of herself_

_She can wait if she wants_

_She’s ahead of her time_

_Oh, and she never gives out and she never gives in_

_She just changes her mind_

He changes the station.

* * *

Enjolras finds that he actually really likes Arthur—he’s attractive and funny and intelligent. He’s very attentive towards what Enjolras has to say, leaning in closer and doing this thing where he furrows his eyebrows, as if to let him know he’s got his full attention. And he might be the first person not to immediately make fun of him for seriously liking Taylor Swift. And also he likes him. That’s always a plus.

But Arthur isn’t Éponine. And it’s only then when Enjolras realises that he’s in too deep to want anyone who isn’t her.

“Look, Arthur,” Enjolras starts, rather apologetic, as he drinks the last of his coffee. The coffee shop is at its busiest around this time of day, baristas shouting out orders, teenagers milling about doing homework, businessmen in three-piece suits fixated on their laptops before them. He wishes he could give himself the chance to like Arthur, but it wouldn’t be fair to him, pursuing something with him, not when Éponine’s still in the picture. “I like you…”

“I hear the ‘but’ coming,” Arthur says, feigning nonchalance as he laughs in such a way that isn’t really funny at all. He averts his gaze, stares down instead at the coffee ring staining the wooden table.

Enjolras grimaces, his cheeks growing warm. “There’s… someone else.”

Arthur falls silent for a bit, rubs the back of his neck, deep in thought. After a while, he reminds Enjolras softly, “You told me you weren’t in a relationship. When I asked you, and you said no.”

“I know. I’m sorry. And I’m not,” Enjolras is quick to clarify. “But I—I really like her. And there might be something between us, I think. Me starting something with you wouldn’t be fair to anyone.”

“Right.” Arthur nods in terse understanding, pressing his lips together as he glances away.

Enjolras doesn’t really know what to say now, so he just waits for Arthur to say something. Then he says the last thing Enjolras expected him to say.

“Tell me about her.”

Enjolras blinks, once, twice. “I’m sorry?”

“About this girl you like. Tell me about her.” Arthur gives him a little smile, much more genuine this time. “You’re a good guy, Enjolras. I’ve seen what you do around campus. You care a lot. If it’s okay with you, I would still like to be your friend.”

It takes him a moment to register what’s happening before he relaxes in his seat, smiling at Arthur. “I’d like that.”

He spends the rest of their time there talking about Éponine, which is kind of strange to him, considering how this was supposed to be his and Arthur’s date, but Arthur repeatedly tells him that it’s fine, that he doesn’t mind. He likes listening to Enjolras talking about Éponine, it turns out. He can tell how much he likes her.

“I hope things work out between you two,” Arthur says sincerely in the end, when they’re about to part ways outside the coffee shop entrance.

Enjolras smiles. “Thank you. I hope so too.”

When he gets home two hours later after being stuck in the most horrendous traffic, he almost expects Éponine to still be there, still on his bed—which is ridiculous, considering how she doesn’t even live here. God. When did _ that _ happen?

Once he gets to his bedroom, he decides to call her, to tell her what happened. That no, he didn’t get a boyfriend, but he did make a new friend, which is even better. But as he sits there, his phone pressed to his ear, listening to the dial tone looping over and over and telling him that she isn’t going to pick up, he sees it. The chain on his nightstand. The one with his key.

Her absence is deafening. He’s never heard silence quite this loud.

* * *

He sees her again two weeks later, when he’s out having drinks at a little bar Arthur brought him along to. It’s a nice, low-key place, far more so than the East Side dive bar from so many months ago—not many people are around at this particular hour. The quiet rather soothes him.

They’ve texted on and off in the two weeks between—him asking her how she’s doing, her sending him a series of middle-finger emojis in response. He’d ask to hang out, multiple times, but she always seemed to come up with some excuse not to. And he doesn’t understand why. He thought things were fine between them, so why does it feel like she’s avoiding him?

“That’s her,” he says to Arthur, quietly, pointing from the table they’re sitting at to where Éponine is sitting at the bar with Grantaire and Cosette.

Arthur looks up from his drink and follows his gaze. “The brunette?” Enjolras nods affirmative. “Wow, she’s gorgeous. No wonder you like her so much.”

Enjolras laughs under his breath. “That isn’t the main reason why I like her.”

“Ah, but it _ is _ a reason, isn’t it?” Arthur points out, grinning. “If things don’t work out between you two, can I date her instead?”

Enjolras rolls his eyes, but he laughs, rather half-hearted. “She doesn’t date.” He looks back over at Éponine, watching her laughing and talking with Grantaire and Cosette, unaware of the fact that there’s something of a wistful look in his blue eyes.

“Why don’t you go talk to her?” Arthur suggests, giving Enjolras a slight nudge with his elbow.

He sighs. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

He opens his mouth to speak before he realises that he doesn’t have an answer. Maybe it’s because he knows that if she wanted to talk to him, she would have by now. But God, he’s missed just being around her, even though she can be a bit of a pain in the ass sometimes, and maybe she doesn’t believe in love yet—or ever—but he doesn’t care. He just wants—_needs _ to know that they’re okay. If they’re okay.

So he tells Arthur he’ll be right back and he gives him a supportive little smile before he walks over to Éponine, and Grantaire and Cosette. Enjolras takes a deep breath and clears his throat. “Éponine?”

He can see her smile instantly fall from her face when she hears the sound of his voice and slowly turns around. Cosette smiles at him and Grantaire seems to have suddenly become very interested in his chocolate martini. Briefly, Enjolras wonders if Grantaire knows. Of course he knows. He’s been Éponine’s best friend since forever.

“Enjolras.” Éponine’s voice is rather clipped, rather curt. Something in him cracks.

“I was just—” He swallows, trying again. “I was just here with Arthur. I saw you guys over here.”

Éponine leans slightly to the right and peers over his shoulder before she returns her gaze to him, looking at him through hardened, narrowed eyes. “Then what are you doing over here if you’re on a date?” The bite in her tone is impossible to miss. “That’s rude, asshole.”

Enjolras’ stomach tightens. “It’s not a date. He and I are just friends. That’s all.”

The harsh lines at the corners of Éponine’s mouth smooth out ever so slightly. After a brief pause, she asks rather uncertainly, “He’s not your boyfriend?”

“No.” Enjolras bites his lip. “Can we talk? Please? Just you and me?”

“I—sure.” Somewhat reluctantly, Éponine gets to her feet, telling Grantaire and Cosette that she’ll be right back, but they’re already engrossed in their own conversation. Enjolras gets the feeling that they’re just doing their best not to get involved. So he takes Éponine’s hand in his and tugs her in the direction of the bathroom.

“Éponine, why have you been avoiding me?” he asks the moment he locks the door behind him and flips the switch on the wall, the fluorescent light flickering to life overhead.

She avoids his gaze. “Maybe we should talk outside—I mean, it’d sure smell a hell of a lot better than in here—we can—”

“Éponine, _ please_,” he interjects, and he hates the desperation made obvious with the slight crack in his voice. “Please, just—just answer me.”

She shrugs, biting down hard on her lower lip, still averting her eyes. He wonders when she got so good at that. Being a ghost. Or maybe she’s always been this way, and he’s only just beginning to notice.

“I thought you had a boyfriend,” she murmurs, her voice barely audible. She finally looks up then, meeting his eyes. Her voice is much steadier as she says, “I didn’t want to get in the way.”

“If you had just talked to me, you’d know that I don’t,” he says, and he doesn’t mean to come off that way, he really doesn’t, but he can hear the harshness in his own voice. His bitterness and frustration starting to get the better of him. And he knows she heard it.

“Enjolras, if you want to be with someone, like, in a serious relationship, now, or whenever, you should be free to have one,” she responds, her voice rather sharp, “and you can’t have one if you’re still sleeping with me.”

“I don’t. I don’t want a girlfriend, or a boyfriend, or _ whatever_,” he tells her, taking a step towards her only for her to take a step back.

“Well, you told me you were going on a date, what the fuck was I supposed to think?” Éponine laughs unsmilingly as she leans back against the sink, crossing her arms across her chest. Her eyes are stony, her mouth set in a thin straight line. A sign that she’s closed him off, shut him out. He hasn’t seen that look on her face since before they started this entire thing. Before they got into this mess. “I don’t—I’m sorry, Enjolras, but I don’t want to be your girlfriend. And I know you. You have so much love to give. You’re one of the most passionate people I know. One day, you’re going to want to settle down. Someone to fight with you. Someone to fight _ for _ you. But I can’t give that to you.”

“I know,” he says, softer now. “I knew that when we first started this. I know that now. And I’m not asking you to do any of that. I just—I don’t want you to disappear. Please.”

She bites her lip and closes her eyes as she bows her head, murmuring, “You deserve someone who can give you what you want. Someone who’ll give you their all.”

Enjolras takes another step forward to close the distance between them, reaching out to gently cup her jaw in his hand, and her eyes flutter open. “I think,” he says, quietly, his voice hardly above a murmur as he slowly tilts her head up to look into her eyes, “that I should be the one who decides what I do or don’t deserve.”

Éponine finally meets his eyes, and hers have gone glassy. “This—whatever the hell _ this _ is, it’s not what’s best for you. _ I’m _ not what’s best for you.”

“You don’t know that,” he whispers.

“I do, Enjolras.” She sounds so tired. “I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t.”

She’s dug her nails into his back so many times already. He can handle the hurt. “I don’t care.”

Éponine blinks rapidly, in succession, and her eyes lose a bit of that glassy sheen as she mumbles, “You know, you’re making this really damn hard for me.”

“Can we please just go back to the way things were before?” Enjolras asks, almost begs. “Please?”

“And what then?” Éponine murmurs. Her question pierces like a knife. “How long are we going to keep this up? Because you know this can’t go on forever.”

“I don’t know,” he says honestly, his voice just as soft. “All I know is that I don’t want this to end just yet. I don’t need you to protect my feelings, Éponine. I’ll be okay.”

She sighs and turns away, and for a second there, he thinks she’s going to leave. He’d let her if she doesn’t want to do this anymore. But instead, she grabs the collar of his shirt, pushes him down onto the closed lid of the toilet seat and straddles him. “If this is what you want, then fine.”

He smiles when she leans in to press her lips to his, his hands running up her legs, feeling the torn denim beneath his fingers, undoing the button of her jeans. The song playing in the background, faint, indistinct, sounds achingly familiar.

_ And she’ll promise you more than the Garden of Eden_

_Then she’ll carelessly cut you and laugh while you’re bleeding_

_But she’ll bring out the best and the worst you can be_

_Blame it all on yourself, ’cause she’s always a woman to me_

“Do you love me, Enjolras?” Éponine asks then, a hushed whisper against his lips, her mouth a breath away from his as she waits for his answer.

He knows what she wants him to say. The antithesis of the words lingering on the tip of his tongue.

“Lie if you have to,” she breathes out, and he can hear the desperation in her voice. “Please.”

“No,” he says, reaching up to drag his thumb across her bottom lip, and it’s his heart that’s skipping a beat. “I swear I don’t love you.”

The tiniest ghost of a grateful smile flits across her lips as she whispers, “Okay,” before she leans in to kiss him hard, hands reaching up to cup his face as his go to tangle in her hair.

He knows she’s scared. He knows, and he wants to tell her that she doesn’t have to be. But it would probably be a lot harder for him—she’s the one who’s got his heart in the palm of her hand. All she has to do is make a fist.

_ She is frequently kind, then she’s suddenly cruel_

_She can do as she pleases_

_She’s nobody’s fool_

_But she can’t be convicted; she’s earned her degree_

_And the most she will do is throw shadows at you, but she’s always a woman to me_

* * *

She was right, of course, when she said this can’t last forever. But he wants to make it last as long as possible. Because he knows he can’t have her, not in the way he really wants.

He doesn’t know when he started wanting to be able to call her his girlfriend so badly. She’s gone from someone who’s always just sort of been there, in their circle of friends, someone he was acquainted with but wouldn’t really consider to be in his inner circle, to someone he can’t imagine not having in his life. He wants to sleep next to her, feel her breathing, to wake up beside her and brew her coffee in the mornings. He wants to take her out on dates, proper dates, take her to see those Broadway shows she likes to go to on the rare occasion that she can afford it. He wants so much of what he can’t have. If he’s being honest with himself, it’s his own damn fault. She’s made it clear where she stands from the beginning, told him from the start what this was, at least to her. But that didn’t stop him from falling for her in the process. It didn’t stop some tiny part of him from hoping that maybe she’d end up falling for him too.

God, how naive he was for thinking that way.

She made a place for herself in his life, so slowly and gradually as the months fell away that he never even noticed until it was too late. And now she’s left, and he’s the one who’s sorry.

He finds distractions. In his friends, in his classes, in rallies and protests, in sombre Taylor Swift ballads. But she’s always there. The girl with the fiery eyes and broken smile. Forever etched into the back of his mind. The one constant in the uncertainty of his life.

He wonders if he’ll ever be able to forget.

* * *

She texts him one day, when he’s home alone while Combeferre’s out grocery shopping and Courfeyrac’s off with Marius on the hunt for a birthday present for Cosette.

**Éponine: so i’m in the living room sorting out my laundry and i found one of your sweaters mixed in with my clothes and r left the radio on and they started playing she’s always a woman**

Enjolras is trying to figure out how exactly to respond to that when another text comes in seconds later.

**Éponine: stop haunting me.**

As he stares at the glow of his phone screen, he wants to tell her that if anything, she’s the ghost in this relationship, or whatever it is. Was. He’s merely the deserted house she resides in.

Sometimes he wonders if she’d be willing to let him back in. He kind of doubts it.

He puts down his phone and doesn’t text her back.

* * *

So he loves her. Of course he does. He loves her so much, every part of him aches because of it. It’s branded into his skin, on every part where her hands have touched. He never really asked for this. He never expected to _ really _ fall for her. But strangely, he doesn’t regret a single moment.

He hopes they’ll meet again one day, in the future, however near or far that may be, when they’re older and she’s ready for him. Because he’s got so much love in him, for her, that he’s not sure what to do with it. He aches to say those words he so longs to say. Just three little words that somehow hold so much weight.

Maybe one day she’ll let him tell her.

Maybe one day she’ll say it back.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! you can catch me over on tumblr [@bisexual-eponine](https://bisexual-eponine.tumblr.com/)


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